I went through many changes in my first few years at a children's shelter in Albuquerque. Still, none were more consequential or long-lasting than my growing awareness of my parents’ problems, and therefore, my own. By the age of ten, I finally understood that my parents were drug addicts and that my mother had severe mental health issues. My father was useless. Before then, I hadn’t been consciously aware of their addictions. Few things seem odd if they’re all you’ve ever known.

By this point, I’d developed my own opinions about my mother as a person, concluding that she was a taker, only interested in the easy path in life. When I visited her, she’d discuss her two ambitions: applying for public housing and suing the pants off the person who’d crashed into her car. Neither materialized. I couldn’t help but think about the New Testament maxim my grandfather wielded against my father, “If a man does not work, he does not eat,” and how it could just as easily apply to my mother.

After contemplating my mother’s problems, it didn’t take much of a leap to consider my own. I was living in a goddamned orphanage! Kids on the school bus looked at me funny, and I was a loner during recess. When the ACCH wanted to take a trip, we’d collect cans on the side of the highway to get the money from recycling, or we’d humiliate ourselves by selling lollipops in bank vestibules. “It’s for a good cause,” sure feels like begging when you’re the good cause.

All of this is by way of noting that by the age of 10, I’d come to realize the obvious truth of my situation: I was well and truly fucked. I might not make it out.

I broached these topics with the local leader in my community, Omar. He beat my ass with regularity, and a couple of times he hurt me badly. But he was my roommate. And I was growing to love him as an older brother, though I’d never have used those words at the time. But despite our increasing closeness, any discussion of our circumstances was problematic for several reasons.

I never once had a meaningful conversation with another kid, boy or girl, and discussed the intimate details of our parents’ failures. As a rule, we avoided conversations involving parents. If parents were brought up, they were inevitably lionized, mothers especially.

Just as the topic of parents themselves was avoided, none of the children ever discussed why they were at the group home. If pressed, the most common answers were, “better than home,” “better than the barrio,” or “better than juvie.” Undoubtedly true, but more honest responses might have included, “my dad hit me,” or “my mom shoots up.” Our shared, unspoken truth was that our parents had failed us, and they bore the responsibility for our circumstances.

There was a period when Omar and I had a room to ourselves. Having not much else to do, we played Risk. He’d beat me three times out of four, employing a strategy whereby he took Australia and then Asia. Being deeply patriotic, naturally, I occupied North America first and then attempted to overtake South America before attacking Asia. But anyone who’s ever played Risk knows that’s a shit strategy.

One Saturday afternoon, we had the game spread out all over the floor of our room. Things were looking up in this particular game; I’d just claimed Kamchatka by an all-out attack over the Bering Strait.

“Omar, we’re screwed, aren’t we?” I said as I finished my turn.

“We? No. You’re screwed. I’m about to take Asia.”

“I mean us. Here. At the home.”

“Oh.” He rolled the dice. “Yeah, I’ve been wondering how to get out for a while now.”

I looked up from the game. “What do you think we should do?”

“Don’t know. We’ll talk after lights out and work the angles. Now shut up and play.”

“I think you can get out using your brain,” Omar said. “You might be able to get a scholarship to college.

“Like Dana went to the University of New Mexico?”

“What about you?” I asked.“Maybe you can find money for college, too.”

“I doubt it. I don’t have your book smarts.”

“Sorry,” I said, “but you are smart.”

"What about that internship you heard about at Coca-Cola? Couldn’t you get a job there? You know, work there for a long time?”

“Like stick in one place and work my way up?”

“Yeah. Kids at the home follow you no matter what. They play the games you want to play, do the stuff you want to do. I play Risk with you, even though you always kick my ass.”

Omar thought for a minute. “Leadership.”

I’d never used that word before, but it’s what I was driving at. “Leadership,” I repeated.

And so we hatched our plans. Omar would get an entry-level job at the Coca-Cola company and work his way up the ladder. I’d get a scholarship to college.

These conversations established a commitment, the most significant commitment of my life. Not between Omar and me—although he was always kicking around in the back of my head—but to myself. If I made good grades, I’d get a college scholarship.

I kneaded and worked this fantasy in my mind until it became something larger than escape, larger than college. In my ten-year-old imagination, I would become extraordinary—an Einstein, a Jesus-like figure—someone so remarkable they couldn’t help but be seen. It was the kind of grandiose dream that could only arise from desperate need; a form of positive narcissism that provided the emotional sustenance required to survive. The fantasy itself became a kind of shelter.

At ten, a college education was vague and far away and would remain so for many years. So this commitment didn’t entail a single change in my day-to-day life. The truth was that I didn’t have to work to get good grades. But in my head, this commitment was everything—an aspiration, a projection of myself into the future that kept me focused on a positive outcome and helped me ignore the madness that would surround me over the next decade. After those conversations with Omar, I never doubted that I’d survive.

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